


Amilessë

by semper_eadem



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brothers, Family, Gen, Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:31:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semper_eadem/pseuds/semper_eadem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three brothers, a summer day, and a mother's foresight. A vignette concerning names.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amilessë

**Author's Note:**

> Amilessë, the mother-name, is a name of insight, but also foresight. I often read that Atarinkë came to his mother-name because of the similarities to his father. This was a far to one-sided explanation for me, and I took the idea on a spin.
> 
>  A little warning for Quenya-Names. Keeps you on your toes.
> 
> Not beta-read. I apologise beforehand for any mistakes that escaped my obsessive proof-reading.

“Atar!” 

The chisel slipped over blue-veined marble, taking with it just enough stone to make it a bother. His hands tightened around the tools. Eyes never leaving the unfinished work, a stature that had been thrown out of balance with so tiny a mistake. 

A deep breath and he sat the chisel again against stone, mind already running with different methods to correct the flaw. 

“Atar! Atar!” two identical voices rang through the doorway of the atelier, accompanied with the sound of running little feet. 

The hammer froze in mid-swing. Curufinwë Atarinkë took a breath through his nose, released it, and let his arms fall to his sides. 

There had been a time - he was now able to remember fondly - when his door would be closed while he worked. When his father would open his for the cries of his sons instead, leaving him with the privilege of silent and solitude study for hours until someone (most of the time his mother or Tyelkormo) would drag him back into the loud reality that was his family.  
“Poor Atarinkë,” his brothers' would tease him, when he had then finally left the worlds of stone dust and glowing metal, “stuck so long in his rooms, he barely remembers the colour of the sky.” 

Behind him there was a soft giggle, and he caught over his shoulder two heads of red hair, peaking around the door frame. Setting the heavy tools on a workbench was all they needed for an invitation. Two small whirlwinds were upon him a moment later. 

“Ambarussa,” he said, getting down on one knee to fold his arms around his little brothers. “Have you already finished your lessons with Amil?” 

Both nodded vigorously enough to make their braids fly. “We have the afternoon free,” Telufinwë announced.

“Are you taking us to the lake?” Pityafinwë said, with the same breathless voice that barely contained his joy. 

Before he could even gather his wits for a replay, they chorused, “Please, Atar, you promised.”

His lips twitched, the words to correct them balanced on the tip of his tongue. Futile, he knew, like pressing water from a rock. “Of course I did,” he said instead, placing quick kisses on their noses. “Go and get your bags. And don't forget your drawing kits.” The last part, he had to shout at their retreating backs, as the Twins rushed out the room, cheering the whole way up the stairs. 

Getting up from his kneeling position, he turned back to the block of blue-veined marble. The piece, he had hewn off in surprise, had left a jagged hole in the face of Ulmo. Or so, it looked to his critical eye. Another commission his mother still thought him to young to take on. Another one, he probably would not hear his father's opinion on. 

With a smooth movement, he pulled a cloth over the stone. He would face the flaw tomorrow.

There had been a time, as Curufinwë Atarinkë had been simply the fifth son of his father. Bookish and solitary, bearing more often the brunt of his brothers' jokes than not. Before they had found a life outside their parents' house. Before the apprentices were suddenly turning to him for guidance in their projects, and his mother thanking him in a tired voice when he took more and more work of the household in his own hands. His father imprisoning himself in darkened rooms to harness light. 

Before his ridiculous Amilessë had been twisted by innocent tongues into a title he had no right to. 

He closed the door of the atelier with a soft click behind him and followed his brothers to make sure their bags did not only hold toys when they go down to the lake. The cool water would be bliss after the smouldering midday heat. Maybe luck would smile upon them and they would net some fish for dinner. 

A little while later, leading the Twins out into the summer day, Atarinkë hesitated for a moment at the closed door to Fëanáro's laboratory. But only for a moment, for Ambarussa pulled at his hands and all three spilled out the house in a sea of laughter.


End file.
